


Blue.

by ameliaspunkcomplex



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, PTSD, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-19
Updated: 2014-01-19
Packaged: 2018-01-09 06:57:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1142899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ameliaspunkcomplex/pseuds/ameliaspunkcomplex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When he falls asleep, the back of his eyelids aren’t black, but electric blue. He is always there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blue.

**Author's Note:**

> Just a drabble exploring Clint post-Avengers. Trigger warnings for PTSD and suggestion of flashbacks/panic attacks.

It always starts with _blue_.

When he falls asleep, the back of his eyelids aren’t black, but electric blue. He is always there.

 _“Your minds are mine to mould,” says the god,_ his _god, “and you, Barton; you just make perfect putty.” A long, thin finger taps Clint’s temple, and on the surface the assassin feels swelling pride._

_He has served his god well. He is the perfect soldier._

_“All those secrets, locked away in places that never see the light of day.” The voice behind him is a purr, cool breath on the back of his neck, intense gaze burning holes in his skull. Even without looking, he knows those eyes off by heart. The blue of an icicle hanging from a cave, sharp and quivering in its place. You can imagine that you would freeze to death under that gaze._  
 _“Places so dark even you don’t venture, and yet I can unravel it all with a lazy flick of my hand. Your mind is a beautiful thing, agent Barton. Your very being is built upon shaky foundations of lies, half-truths and locked boxes.” A finger trails his clavicle, so cold it burns his skin. Deep, deep beneath the surface, he is trapped within himself, and as the hand of God traces his jawline, he kicks and rattles the bars of his cage, kicking and screaming, clawing and kicking and crying and clawing and_

Screaming. He awakes with a cry that dies in his throat. He thinks he can hear somebody pounding desperately on the door until he realises it is his own frantic heart against his ribcage. It isn’t until his senses come back to him and he can hear his own ragged breaths fill the room that he notices his hand in wrapped around the knife he keeps on his bedside table: his body is reacting instinctually, and it takes a moment for his mind to catch up before his eyes stop flickering around the room in search for a threat.

Very, very slowly, he lets the knife go and sits back into the pillows. They, like the sheet, are drenched with sweat and stick to his shiny skin. His eyes adjust to the darkness, and relief washes over him. The darkness is comforting. He has lived in shadows. What pierces him like daggers is the bright colours of his nightmares, the blinding light of his mind simultaneously stretching and falling in on itself, and blue.

“Sir, should I alert another Avenger?” The voice is even, crisp and clean. “Mr Stark is currently awake in the lab.”

Clint thinks of a S.H.I.E.L.D locked psychiatric ward, thinks of grey, bent-over doctors with condescending smiles and half-moon glasses; thinks of little bottles of pills and the inevitable report form. _Mentally unfit_ , it would say in those aggressive, red letters, _continuation in the Avengers initiative not recommended_.

“No, J.A.R.V.I.S. I’m fine.”

“I would like to remind you that this is your seventh consecutive interrupted night, sir,” J.A.R.V.I.S replies, “and that your health is declining due to sleep deprivation, according to my readings. I would suggest tha-“

“Do you come with an off button?” Clint interrupts, jaw terse and teeth gritted.

“No, sir.”

“Just forget it.”

He rolls over in bed, but knows he won’t sleep tonight. The bedside clock reads three in the morning. He will go downstairs to the gym and shoot, ignore it when the arrows miss their targets and pretend it has nothing to do with the fact that he’s slept maybe eight hours in total, this week. When he has a waking flashback in front of a teammate, he will brush it off. When pushed, he will become defensive. When they leave him alone, he will resent them for not pushing harder.

When he closes his eyes, he will see blue.


End file.
